


Safeword

by Rahn (Rahndom)



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-16 04:28:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1331923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahndom/pseuds/Rahn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Bruce wonders if his son will ever be able to let go, and trust.</p><p>So he teaches him a way to do so indirectly.</p><p>You can also read its prequel: "The Power of the Queen"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safeword

Bruce’s life is one of measures and contradictions.

A maddened race against The Ripper waiting for him at the end of the line.

A life of regrets and worries.

A life of mourning for the son he couldn’t save and cannot reach even now.

A life of paving the road for the songbird of a son that lit his life for so many years and then flew away to live on his own.

A life of nurturing and fixing the broken doll of a daughter that he never asked for and yet was forced into his home by destiny and circumstances.

A life of praying for the wisdom of parents long gone to bring a heart into the little killer of a child that he fears will never learn how to love.

A life of watching his unbreakable tin soldier  bend under the pressure of the world beyond his reach.

He has lists and files and a will, all ready to provide for those five wonderful children when he is no longer part of their lives, part of this Earth.

He knows he won’t die an old man and he can only hope he can make sure they do.

He has willed an enormous portion of his fortune to his eldest, hoping against hope that his songbird will lay to rest years after he is not able to fly anymore. That he will open his heart to his other damaged little orphans in his absence and will protect them all as he always hoped.

He knows in his heart Dick will make sure Jason lives comfortably, that he will dedicate his time to Cassandra, that he will remind Damian every single day that his father loved him.

Yet, he doubts even Dick’s miraculous smile will be able to bring any solace to Tim’s indomitable will.

Because he knows that, while most of his children will crowd around Dick after he has fought his last battle, Tim will just smile his shy little smile and continue on his own, eyes set on the horizon for a future that will never come, for a father that won’t return anymore.

And that is both, his greatest accomplishments and his biggest fears.

Because he knows Tim is too independent to rest his tired body on Dick’s shoulders and yet too fragile to go on alone.

He knows the day he asks Alfred after one of his shirts, the fourth to have disappeared from his closet in the last year, the third to have fled without a trace, the second that has been stained in by his own blood.

He knows when Alfred simply shakes his head and his old eyes rise to the ceiling, towards Tim’s mostly unused room in the Manor.

He finds Tim curled in bed, a little ball of tucked limbs, tear-stained cheeks and stiff fingers holding for dear life into the blood-encrusted cotton of his shirt, and he wonders how is it that he, THE Batman, sleeping in the room adjacent to Tim’s, hadn’t heard the boy cry the night before, hadn’t heard his choked gasps for air and the need for comfort, for the simple, childish reassurance that he wouldn’t be left behind once again.

‘Not even The Batman can listen to a boy cry when said boy has learned that his crying will bring no one,’ his years of studies in psychology answer for him. ‘Won’t a babe stop crying when he realizes his parents won’t respond to his calls?’

His eyes stray to the small wooden box that Tim zealously keeps near him at all times. The one where he knows Tim still keeps Jack’s ridiculous yellow sweater and watch, Janet’s perfume-laden silk scarf and old gold earrings.

Where, he guesses, his last three shirts are tucked away.

Feeling his throat close with emotions he rarely allows himself to express, he decides to sit by the boy’s sleeping form, letting the back of his fingers gently card through his dark hair, his pale cheeks, his furrowed brow.

He feels the muscles under his hand tense and allows a small sigh to escape his lips.

He realizes, then, that no matter what he does, Tim will never go to him for comfort in the way Dick and Jason did.

Will never allow himself to bother him with his need.

This little Tin Soldier of his will never dare to tarnish his world with his one-legged imperfection.

He decides, then, to offer one simple solace into his son’s tired psyche and, for once, deposit his trust – one of his most precious treasures - into someone else’s hands.

“Even I have to rely in others some times,” he whispers, his hand still caressing Tim’s hair. “Though I might not show it.”

Tim opens one red-rimmed eye, his cheek flushing a pale pink as he locks gazes with him in askance.

He nods.

“In the event that something were to happen to me, something that might make the rest of the Justice League suspect my allegiances, Clark or Diana will say the word… ‘Zorro’,” he comments. “And if I don’t react, they are to take me down immediately.”

Tim finally turns to him, his lips bitten and trembling but his muscles relaxing slowly.

Bruce smiles.

“And if you suspect them?” he asks in a small whisper, a terrible sin for someone so wonderful to be so quiet.

“If I suspect Clark, he has to respond to ‘Helios’ and Diana to ‘Steve’,” Bruce replies, eyes growing somber. “It’s the most I can trust them to do what’s right, just as they will trust me to do the same.”

“A gamble,” Tim whispers.

“A leap of faith,” Bruce corrects. “Sometimes, Tim, there will be a need of yours that will need that kind of trust and, sometimes that same need will fester and turn into a burden if not looked after.”

Tim looks away.

“I hope that, one day, you will be able to rely those needs in a way that makes you feel comfortable,” he continues, his thumb slowly caressing Tim’s red cheekbone. “When you are scared, when you are dying, when you want to die and can’t, someone has to have your back in your most vulnerable moments.”

Tim remains silent, his eyes set on the window.

Bruce sighs.

“Can you promise you will think about it?” he prompts, his hand warming the skin bellow it.

A minute passes.

Then Tim nods.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Do you want to sleep a little more? I will call your school and call you in sick.”

Tim remains silent but his head turns into another small nod.

“Okay then.”

Bruce leaves to do as he has promised and can only hope in his heart that Tim will learn, if only by example to trust this burden of his, this raw loneliness and fear, into someone.

Alfred is waiting for him in the kitchen, a small, satisfied smile on his face.

“You did well, Master Bruce,” he whispers as he rests a proud hand on his broad shoulder. “Baby steps.”

“I know,” he whispers back and stores the little spark of hope inside his heart that one day Tim will learn to lay his trust in him.

——-

It’s almost three years later that he remembers that day, just as he sips his coffee and watches his children interact.

“I’m just a poor boy, nobody loves me,” Tim sings as he passes him and serves himself a cup.

Dick grins and grabs Tim’s hand, twirling him happily.

“He’s just a poor boy! From a poor family!” he sings back, laughing when Tim sets his cup down and smiles. “Spare him his life from this monstrosity!”

Cass herself smiles in her seat by his side, her hand resting on top of the table.

Tim pouts.

“Easy come, easy go, will you let me go?”

Dick cackles.

“Bismilah, no! We will not let you go!” he beams, wrapping his arms around Tim’s smaller frame and nuzzling his neck like a cat.

“Let me go!” Tim squeaks, finally succumbing to his breath-like laughter.

Jason, who was about to start digging into his own breakfast decides to grab Tim’s kicking legs and spin him around with Dick.

“Bismilah, no! We will not let you go!”

“Let me go!” Tim giggles.

“No no no no no!” Dick and Jason crow.

“Mamma mia! Mamma mia!” Tim continues to struggle. “Mamma mia let me go!”

“Belzebub has a devil put aside for me!” the three of them sing on top of their lungs, wide smiles of mischief on their faces.

Bruce wants to keep this moment inside his heart for all times, this perfect moment when all of his children are together in peace, happy, enjoying eachother’s company like the family they ought to be.

Hell, even Alfred, still cooking, has a smile on his wrinkled face and, for once, is not scowling at the mess of coffee and milk that the three of them are sprinkling all over the kitchen floor.

A perfect moment indeed.

Then Damian tugs softly onto his sleeve, his young face marred by a scowl.

“I don’t understand,” he mutters, eyes downcast and set onto his own breakfast.

Bruce blinks at him in confusion, trying his best to prompt him into continuing without alerting his other children.

“What is it you don’t understand, son?” he asks.

“Drake often displays his happiness when he sings that British band’s songs,” the boy comments, eyeing the three smiling teens.

Bruce nods.

“And he sometimes plays all his music when he works,” Damian continues. “I researched all I could, because he mentioned it was your favorite band as well, father.”

“It is,” Bruce says, a small smile of his own tugging his lips upwards.

“But then I noticed Drake is missing a song,” Damian scowls, tilting his head. “His collection is an exact replica of your own except for one song.”

Bruce frowns, confused.

He has heard Tim sing along as he works, he always has an ear at the ready for those moments because he likes to see his reserved son express his contentment, and he never noticed the difference.

But now, as he runs a mental checklist of all the songs he has – and knows by heart – and the ones Tim sings under his breath, he feels his eyes widen when he realizes his son, his little killer, is right.

Tim is indeed, ignoring one song in particular.

And that small conversation the two of them held that night so long ago comes to mind as the only conclusion.

He feels in his heart that his Tin Soldier finally decided to lay his trust down and has given a one word warning to express his need.

That one word he will avoid like the plague until he feels he can no longer go on his own. The word that will equal ‘help me’.

And a heavy mixture of feelings seems to melt into his skin and settle at the pit of his stomach.

Joy in the knowledge that his son has listened to his advice and will, one day ask for the help he needs.

And, surprisingly enough, jealousy, because that one plea for help will not be directed at him.

Just like he laid his trust on Clark and Diana, Tim has rested his trust in someone else’s hands, and will not need him.

His child has grown up before his notice.

He has to try though.

“Tim,” he calls, his face an impenetrable mask of seriousness. “Did you finish the report on the Spanish smugglers?”

Tim turns to him, confused, before he nods.

“The gun smugglers?” he asks. “I sent it to you three days ago.”

Bruce nods, crossing his hands in front of his face and resting his chin on top of them, eyes piercing his third Robin.

“I can’t remember,” he says with an unconcerned air. “Where were they located?”

Tim’s face loses color for a moment, understanding dawning on him, before a shy smile curls his lips and ne nods.

“They had a base near La Rambla,” he replies in a whisper, once again reaching for his coffee. “But held most of their meetings in the Palau Guell.”

Their eyes meet.

A missing track on Tim’s Queen collection.

The one word Tim won’t utter until he has no other choice.

He smiles, ignoring this tantalizing new puzzle of Tim’s.

“Of course,” he says, finishing his coffee. “I had forgotten.”

Tim smiles back.

“It’s not like you to forget such things, Bruce,” Dick scowls and holds even tighter to Tim’s back even if Jason has released their little brother’s legs.

“I believe Master Bruce is coming down with a cold,” Alfred joins in, setting a plate of steaming eggs in front of Dick.

“Or perhaps he is getting old,” Jason mutters, stealing the plate from Dick’s near vicinity and digging into it happily.

Tim shakes his head, nodding when Dick and Bruce scowl at Jason.

——-

Bruce wanted to forget that word for the longest time but is forced into remembering it not a month after that happy morning, when all of his children are forced back by an unfortunate attack by The Joker on one side of the city that leaves Damian with an exposed fracture on one of his legs and Dick struggling to prevent a punctured lung as he moves with broken ribs while Bruce tries to drag them both into the safety of the Cave while trying to ignore his own broken arm and bleeding side.

The explosion had surprised them.

He doesn’t think he will forgive himself for his oversight.

Jason is at the Cave when they arrive, scratch marks a deep red into his face as he tries to calm a frantically struggling Tim.

He looks at them then, eyes wide and lips tight.

“Scarecrow was there when I found him,” he spits just before Tim’s fist connects with his ear, making him curse. “I guess this gas is new. I tried all I could by no antidote so far.”

“I’m on it, Bruce, ten minutes tops” Oracle’s voice echoes into the cave as the computer seems to be working on its own and Bruce wants to weep in relief for a moment. “But we need to bring down Tim’s heart rate or else…”

“Can’t even knock him out,” Jason spits, a bloody stain trickling down his chin. “He won’t let me get close enough.”

“NO!” Tim whimpers, his whole body trembling. “No! Leave me alone!”

Bruce eyes the way Alfred is tending to Damian’s leg, immediately sedating the boy for the mending that will come and Dick is eyeing his little brother with frightened eyes and knows he will feel guilty by the surge of relief that is coursing through his system at the thought that they will be taken care of and that, for once, he doesn’t have to choose between his children’s needs.

That he doesn’t have to put one son’s safety over the other.

“Tend to Dick, Jason,” he orders. “His rib is broken.”

“But, Tim!” Dick tries to protest and move to help only to be stopped by Jason’s massive hand on his chest. “Ow!”

“Let B fix this,” Jason mutters, his own eyes reflecting his worry. “Baby bird trusts him more… I hope.”

The screen of the computer is beeping frantically in synch with the accelerated beating of Tim’s heart – most likely the intended result of Dr. Crane’s new invention – and the knowledge that he is rapidly spiraling into a heart attack is quickly driving Bruce into panic himself.

He slowly approaches the shivering teen who is slowly curling into a familiar small ball of human limbs and bloody fingers, a shape he has not seen since that fatidic night.

And he suddenly knows that he won’t be able to calm his son.

That this time, no matter what he does, the gas-induced nightmares are not something he will be able to sooth. This time Crane has managed to frighten his powerful Tin Soldier into a place he will not be able to reach him.

He still struggles to approach, a hand tight on his wounded side before a tired sigh escapes his lips.

“Say it, Tim,” he whispers, afraid his own booming voice will frighten Tim further into desperation. “Say the word.”

“No!” Tim sobs. “Dead, all dead, no use anymore.”

“No one will blame you,” Bruce insists, his vision blurring. “Say the word, Tim. Please.”

“B… but…”

“Say it, Tim,” he orders. “I’ll go first and you can go then, okay?”

Tim’s dilated eyes widen, landing on him at the same time as his nails dig into the skin of his knees with enough strength to make them bleed and his head rocks from side to side.

The heart monitor on the computer increases its urgency.

“B…” Tim struggles. “B….”

“It’s okay, Tim,” he tries, eyes staying between his children and the computer monitor. “It’s okay to be scared.”

Tim’s teeth sink into his parched bottom lip just as his face hides between his unsteady knees and hands.

“Zorro, Tim,” Bruce insists, his hands clenching. “Zorro.”

Tim lets out a low whimper, his muscles tightening so hard Bruce fears his thin bones will snap under the pressure.

“B…” he tries on chattering teeth. “Bar…”

The cave falls into silence as Tim manages to overcome his fright enough to utter one whispered plea.

“Barcelona…”

Bruce lets himself fall to his knees and wait, he knows, then and there, that he can only wait.

“Barcelona?” Dick gasps as Jason shakes his head, bandaging his torso while not letting his eyes leave Tim’s shivering form.

“Bruce…” the other young man snarls, noticing how their mentor is not moving to help their younger brother.

A sudden booming rocks the air around them, the sound of the air snapping into place as a black and red blur seems to melt from the shadows and into reality in the blink of an eye, a cry of: “He’s here!” alerts them of a second, yellow blur as both seem to mold into a protective cocoon of limbs and hair that envelops Tim with the most infinite of cares.

Bruce allows a gasp of relief to escape his throat.

“Shh, we’re here,” Superboy whispers, his massive hands running over Tim’s hair, his back, his sides. “It’s okay, Rob, we’re here, see?”

“Dead,” Tim sobs, eyes clenched shut.

“What?” Bart asks, eyes wide as he drapes himself over Tim’s heaving back, his own voice as soothing as he can manage while practically vibrating with worry. “No! Nonononononono! Look Timmy! Here we are! Remember? We promised.”

“Open your eyes, Tim, shhh, don’t worry, we got you,” Kon continues to whisper, cradling the trembling teen into his arms and rocking him back and forth. “Deep breaths, buddy, come on.”

It is a slow process to Bruce, an eternity that is unfolding before his very eyes but it must have been just a few seconds in reality, but Tim’s tight muscles start to relax and his limbs are suddenly lax from his protective position to curl around Kon’s chest, his face hiding against his powerful neck.

“Come on, Rob, breath,” he urges, his hands never stopping his gentle caresses.

“Just do what I’m doing, Tim!” Bart adds, slowing his own breathing into a normal rate and whispering his own breath into Tim’s ear. “One… two… one… two…”

Bruce eyes the monitor where the frantic beating of Tim’s heart is finally slowing as well, just as his whole body seems to go limp and his still dilated eyes focus enough to gaze into Bart’s worried honey ones.

“You really… came…?” he asks, tears still running down his cheeks.

“We promised, you asshole,” Kon mock growls, his nose nuzzling Tim’s ear. “Close your eyes, you are safe now… we won’t leave.”

A soft ‘ping!’ announces the antidote to be ready before Oracle can produce words herself, most likely she has been struck speechless by this little scene.

Bruce grabs it the second the syringe is full and slowly approaches the three teens, only to be the recipient of two frigid pair of eyes.

“Don’t come any closer,” Superboy growls. “You’ll only frighten him more.”

“The antidote,” he growls back, not at all surprised when Bart uses his speed to grab it from his outstretched hand.

“Where?” the speedster asks.

“Neck,” he replies, finding himself approving of the infinite care both Titans use when applying the antidote into Tim’s pale neck, how their fingers sooth the small bleeding the needle produces as it pierces the skin and their words are only ones of comfort the more Tim grows weak in their embrace.

He suddenly feels a heavy hand land gently on his shoulder and he closes his eyes when he recognizes the fingers tending to his wound as Alfred’s.

“Damian?” he asks.

“Will be okay in the morning, as will Master Dick,” the old Englishman says, slowly peeling the suit from his damaged torso. “Master Tim?”

Bruce opens his eyes and stares at the two metas slowly talking his son out of his chemically-induced panic attack and allows himself to breath in relief.

“Is being protected by those he trusts,” he whispers and pretends the small twinge of jealousy is not still inside of his self, that the knowledge that the small, select group of those Tim trusts to protect him from his inner demons does not include him.

The one city Jack and Janet decided to take Tim to, in celebration of his seventh birthday.

The one city where he and his best friends met after their separation.

The one place in the whole world that only holds happy memories for him.

He should have known from the beginning, of course.

“So are you, Master Bruce,” Alfred comments, his aged hand caressing his sweat-soaked forehead.

Bruce’s eyes lock with Alfred’s.

“Of course,” he sighs.

The morning sun will find the cave filled with six sleeping teenagers, three resting their worn bodies in the gurneys set around the cave, the other three curled against eachother on the floor, protecting the others from the monsters of their memories.

An adult watching over all of them.

And oh, so grateful that his little Tin Soldier finally found a place to rest his tired head and let his worries go.

Even if it’s not his shoulder as he had hoped.


End file.
